Father Forgive Me
by Flipping Seltzer
Summary: Reese and Crews on their fathers. Extreme overindulgence of parenthesis. This is a little different so excuse any oddness you find- I was playing with allegory. Subtle Creese.


I disclaim: Life belongs to NBC (although they were mean to it and don't deserve it!)

AN: Reese and Crews on their fathers. Extreme overindulgence of parenthesis. This is a little different so excuse any oddness you find- I was playing with allegory.

Father Forgive Me

Her AA meeting this week is in a church, making her distinctly uncomfortable. They're usually in churches, but in halls or basements or places that she can pretend are nowhere (or everywhere).

Church makes her uncomfortable, reminds her of her father, or rather reminds her one on more way her father broke her mother. "We go to real church in this family!" One of his usual rants. Real church was Episcopalian, was never going except on Easter, was faking it (she was always faking it).

Church was not the mosque. Never the mosque.

She shifted, the hard wood pew under her ass (could she swear in church?) digging into her, making her fidget. And now people's eyes were on her, wondering who she was. Who is this new person? How is she damaged?

That was her- damaged. They all were, in this awful stuff church with horrible pews. Let them wonder. She would never get up, never speak. She spoke her confessions in the dark, into strangers skin, or in the shiny blindness of the squad, into Crew's (Charlie's) judgment free ear. It was surprisingly easy, whispering secrets into her partners ear- hard for him to judge, Crew's who was so bright, despite all the darkness within. (Hard to judge when you've killed a man with your bare hands.)

The crucifix in the front was overwhelming and gaudy. From above, Christ looked down, eyes fixed on her, an obvious and open sinner, damning her with his gaze even as he hung for his misdeeds.

She shifted again, wishing she could take off her jacket but aware that if she revealed her badge and gun she would be the cause of more disruption.

There were specific groups for people like her, for law enforcement. She saw them sometimes, circled in red ink and inched onto her desk by Tidwell. She would never go. Those meetings... it was a false nameless there, in a circle of brothers and sisters how could you pretend secrecy? (Everyone knows already, her private shame.) No, she would stick to these meetings, always a new day and time and location. Always new and strange and who, who, who.

The crucifix loomed above. (Judging, caring.)

She would leave, but she knew that Crews would know. He would say nothing, but she'd feel his guilt and why, why, why on her skin all through the next shift.

It was Crews who needed a meeting. Who was he fooling with that Zen? Not her, who'd seen him run down criminals and stare into the eyes of evil without flinching (Seeing himself reflected back). She needed help but his sickness was private, was alone? Bullshit. (Again with the swearing.)

The man in front of her had been drinking. She could smell the bar on his jacket, the liquor on his breath. Her hand started shaking- she turned it into a fist.

Well maybe they both needed meetings.

Boring. Predictable. "I have been... my name is... _clap, clap, clap_." Could she leave now? Would people stare and frown? More importantly, could she grab a cookie on the way out? It would be a knockoff, not worth the calories, but her stomach needed something, if not booze then a cookie would do. Charlie (Crews) had invited her over for dinner, some mango chicken thing that was sure to be mostly fruit- she could drive to his house and sit on the floor and pretend they were normal. (Normal together?)

Pretend she couldn't feel the weight of the cross on her back, pretend he couldn't feel the weight of a hundred on his.

Weight her father put there.

She wasn't stupid. She knew her father did things (had done things), mostly to Crews, mostly to that family, mostly to her mother.

But...mostly. It was the almost that got to her, the slight hope that maybe things weren't what they seemed, weren't what the facts said. (Maybe she wasn't an addict, maybe Crews wasn't crazy.) Her father, who sat and ruled over dinner with an iron fist, who they'd go to church, speak English, do everything to please him and yet still fall so glaringly short that she could literally feel his gaze between her and what should be her.

Did Crews see that void? Tidwell did (different than her father and yet... and yet the same in all the ways that counted) and she could feel herself falling from his expectations, falling from grace.

Her first sponsor said she had to stop waiting for her father's approval, stop setting her goals and desires according to him. (Be yourself.) A tall order for her, who'd chosen her attitude, her profession, her very identity on her father.

If she felt herself at all, it was laying on the hood of her car in the L.A. heat, Charlie beside her, smelling of sweet fruit, saying nothing but sharing the moment (sharing everything). She laid herself out there, in the same position as the Christ swinging above her and Crews laid beside her and suddenly she wasn't alone, wasn't suffocating under the weight. She was just standing (laying) and her father's ghost was nowhere. (She feels free.)

...Life...

Mangos are best picked and shipped slightly ripening. Then they arrive at the market, green and yellow and full of possibilities. Good, bad, tart, sweet. Would it ripen? Would it brown? How long did it need to sit there, waiting in his kitchen, waiting for the ultimate euphoria of 'the perfect mango'.

When was something perfectly ready? (When was someone okay?)

The box was mocking him. (Open me, open me.) Was making him nervous with rage and uncertainty.

To Charles Crews, so and so address. From Charles Crews, so and so address.

Why was his father sending him anything? If he knew his father (and it was a distinct possibility that he didn't) then inside would be something cruel and thoughtless, something meant to bring joy but that would ultimately cause pain. (A brown mango. He'd waited too long.)

It was not, Charlie knew, that his father didn't meant to cause the mental destruction he did. He thought he was doing something good, something for the best, but the thing was, he made his decisions selfishly. (He wanted to see his mother. Why couldn't she come?) And so, despite his good intentions he and everyone else well... got shot. Charlie rubbed the bullet wound in his chest and smelled the mango. Was it ready? If he opened it would it give him fruit or unhappiness?

The mango is a tough but delicate fruit. It can survive just about anything unopened, but once its tough flesh is cut into its can spoil in hours.

But he needed to make a decision. Reese was coming for dinner (hopefully) ad something needed to be done. The box needed to move, the mangos needed to be peeled. But when and which one?

He flicked open his switchblade, sure and silent, secure in its power and his safety with it.

The mangos waited. The box waited.

He tried a fruit. Yellow and soft but tart- not quite right. He put it aside. Dani was coming- he'd only use the best mangos.

The next one was fine, soft and orange-yellow and perfect. The skin pulled away from the flesh, ready. (Ready?) The next two were just as good, if not as pleasurable to peel, as sweet to touch. Two more.

The trouble with his father was the potential. Potential he hadn't lived up to, potential he'd wasted, potential that had never existed, potential good, potential evil. His father lived in that if potential. Charlie lived in the is and was. (That was Zen.) His father would send him 'ifs'- if you retired, here's this, if you forgave me we can go here, if you were never in jail you could been that.

He does not forgive his father. (He is not okay.) He does not want this box, does not want this reminder of his stubborn blame. It is not Zen to blame and yet he blames his father for everything.

He peels the last mango, surprised and upset when it is hard and yellow and not-edible. Not ready and yet peeled, unprepared and open- worthless now. ("You're worthless Crews.") This mango died before its time- he slaughtered it as surely as Hollis slaughtered his friend's family. He debates burying it, but no, no time, Reese is coming and she won't be amused by his mango antics if there isn't an offering of food first.

So he cooks, staring at the box like it would speak, like it held almighty answers.

Later, there is a car in the driveway and slight, quick footsteps on the drive. She doesn't knock- Dani doesn't need to knock here and then she's there, fresh from an AA meeting she hated. (He knows from the pinch of her eyes and crumbs on her jacket.) Quickly, he sets some seltzer- fruity but simple- in front of her and keeps cooking.

She sits, stewing, staring off into space, playing with the crucifix she thinks he doesn't know about around her neck but then she seems to fall back into character, peering at him over the box.

At first it's a game, her watching him cook from around the large brown obstruction, but then she tires and gets cranky, Dani overwhelming Reese and shoving at it angrily. "What the hell is this Crews?"

"Don't know." He answers honestly, shrugging his shoulders.

She stares at him, small frame standing now, and reads his gaze. (She knows him. She'll know if he's ready.) Then she whisks the ox off the table, disappearing into his big house and coming back empty handed. "There. Problem solved."

Charlie smiles at her and decides to use the first, not-quite-ripe mango. A little raw perhaps, but still salvageable. (Problem solved.)

He looks out his large kitchen window and then to his empty counter. (He feels free.)


End file.
